


We Might Be Laughing a Bit Too Loud (But That Never Hurt No One)

by belmanoir



Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Headstones (Band)
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trent wears a schoolgirl skirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Might Be Laughing a Bit Too Loud (But That Never Hurt No One)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unhurt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhurt/gifts).



> Thank you to brynnmck for cheerleading. Unbeta'd. I apologize for any conflict with canon, particularly with regards to Trent's haircut.

They're smoking in the alley behind the club. It's chilly out, so Trent's got his leather jacket on over a sweat-soaked T-shirt and those stupid cut-offs. He told Hugh he likes them because they're comfortable, which in Hugh's opinion is kind of a pansy reason to wear anything. Hugh's throat is sore from singing, so they stand there in companionable silence for a while, just coming down off the performance high.

"Someone left a schoolgirl skirt in our dressing room," Trent says after a while.

Hugh considers this for a minute. "How the fuck do you walk away without your skirt?"

Trent laughs. "Right?"

"Guess it could have belonged to a band member," Hugh offers, but neither of them really give a fuck. The idea of a well-fucked schoolgirl wandering away in her shirt and stockings and shiny Mary Janes is way too alluring to spoil with logic.

"Come on," Hugh says abruptly, heading back into the club. Trent looks askance at him, but Hugh just holds the door open until Trent shrugs and starts to follow him. Then he lets the door swing shut. Trent rolls his eyes and catches it with his shoulder as he takes another drag on his cigarette. 

Hugh is pleased to see that their dressing room is empty. He waits for Trent, then shuts the door behind them and locks it before Tim and Dale can come back. "Where's the skirt?"

Trent points at the table under the dirty mirror, illuminated by a single bare lightbulb. Sure enough, a plaid pleated skirt lies crumpled on the imitation wood.

Hugh takes a slow drag, the corner of his mouth curving in anticipation. "Put it on."

Trent raises an eyebrow at him. "Fuck that."

Hugh drops his cigarette into a half-empty bottle of beer and stares at Trent. "Fuck that, nothing. Put it on."

"Why?"

"Because it would be hilarious and titillating, why do you think?"

"No," Trent says flatly. His face is blank. If you didn't know him you'd think there was no point trying to wheedle him, and maybe there isn't, but Trent unmovable looks exactly the same as Trent bluffing when he's two seconds from caving. Hugh's got nothing to lose, because when he starts to piss Trent off Trent will make that really fucking clear. 

"C'mon, it'll be kinky."

Trent heaves a long-suffering sigh and drops his own cigarette into the beer. "Okay, but you have to turn around."

Hugh feels a tingle--of victory, but of something else too. Because what, like he hasn't seen everything Trent's got a million times? Trent's not asking for modesty, he's asking for effect. He wants that dramatic moment of revelation when Hugh sees him in the skirt for the first time. And Trent--he doesn't give a shit about dramatic moments in the normal course of things. And that's fucking _something._

Hugh turns his back to Trent. "I can hear rustling," he says. "That's fucking hot." A minute later, he cracks up. "Is the zipper defeating you?"

"Fuck off."

"Hey, that's hot too. Anything that makes me think about you naked is hot."

"You are so fucking easy," Trent says fondly. "Okay, you can turn around."

Hugh does, giving Trent the once-over. "That's fucking _nice_." The skirt's too tight and Hugh would bet it's not zipped up all the way in the back but it doesn't matter. It still flares over Trent's hips and falls about four inches down his thighs. Trent's got great legs, Hugh's always said so, and plus Hugh's always dug that pleated-skirt-with-combat-boots look that's so popular with punk girls. Hugh can't see Trent's boxers underneath which means Trent's not wearing underwear--that's one advantage of the cut-offs and loose underwear, Trent can get them off without fucking around with his boots. 

And as if all of that isn't fantastic enough, Trent's ducking his head and giving Hugh his half-insecure half-sarcastic smile through his eyelashes. "I love you, man," Hugh says, overwhelmed with gratitude and affection.

" _Cosmo_ says if a guy says the L-word in bed, it doesn't count," Trent says, pitching his voice a teeny bit higher than usual.

"Fuck you, I always mean it."

Trent laughs. "You love everybody."

It's not true--Hugh hates plenty of people too--but he knows what Trent means. Sometimes when they're performing he's in love with the whole crowd, every last one of them, like his heart's got holes punched in it and the love is just gushing out, up his throat and out of his mouth, painting everyone in the club in great spattering arcs. Trent's not like that. It's one of the things Hugh loves about him. "Well I love you more, fucko." He dives in, pushing Trent up against the edge of the table and staring him down, feeling the familiar charge from having their bodies this close together. "Who do you love?"

Trent laughs again. "You," he says easily. "Duh."

"Fucking right." He musses Trent's hair until it's sticking up every which way.

"Asshole," Trent says without rancor. "Give me your eyeliner." Hugh must be making a comically thrilled face, because Trent snickers at him as he takes the pencil.

"I still don't know why you don't wear eyeliner all the time. You've got such fucking beautiful eyes."

Trent shrugs, turning around and bending across the table to look in the mirror. "Too much fucking work." And there it is again. Trent can't be bothered to put eyeliner on for the crowds of screaming fans, but he'll do it for Hugh. And he looks like a fucking pin-up, the skirt flaring over his ass, his lips parted and his eyes looking bigger by the second. Hugh loves it when Trent wears eyeliner.

He was right, the skirt's not zipped up all the way in the back. A small triangle of bare skin is visible beneath Trent's jacket. He kneels and presses his lips to it, sliding his hands up Trent's calves and rubbing his thumbs back and forth on the tender skin behind Trent's knees.

"That fucking tickles," Trent says, but Hugh knows that's not why he shivered. He traces the edge of the zipper with his tongue, then inches the zipper down until his tongue is on the knob at the base of Trent's spine. "Hey, you're the one who wanted me to wear the skirt," Trent says. "Don't think you're getting me out of it this easily."

"Fucking right. I'm just going to lift it up and fuck you from behind." Trent sucks in a breath, and Hugh gently bites Trent's tailbone.

"I don't know," Trent says. "My mama told me the only thing you could give me was a reputation."

"I'm going to give you a lot more than that, baby." Trent laughs again, and if he didn't already know Trent loved him a million different fucking ways, he would from that, the way Trent is always the perfect straightman, giving him openings and still thinking it's fucking hilarious when Hugh takes them. He slides his hands up, up under the skirt to Trent's ass and squeezes.

"Well, fuck, now you've made me smear it."

Hugh stands up, and yeah, there's a weird line at the corner of Trent's eye where the eyeliner pencil slipped. They could clean it off with Vaseline, but fuck that. "I just smudge it when I do that." He takes Trent's chin in his hand and rubs his thumb gently across the soft skin below Trent's eyes. Trent closes his eyes and waits patiently, and Hugh can't resist leaning in for a kiss. Trent hasn't shaved for a few days. Hugh rubs his cheek along Trent's jaw. It's nice. 

He turns Trent's face back to the mirror. "Look."

Trent smiles at his own reflection for a moment, and then his eyes meet Hugh's. "Happy?"

Hugh puts his hands on Trent's hips and yanks Trent back against him. Jesus, that feels good. He's not sure if Trent can feel his erection through the skirt and Hugh's jeans, so he rubs up against him for good measure. "Either that, or I got a gun in my pocket."

Trent shrugs and braces himself on the table. "Could be both." He puts one hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a condom, a latex glove, and a little thing of lube. He sets them on the table where Hugh can see them.

Hugh wraps his arms around Trent's stomach and leans his chin on his shoulder. "I really dig this boy scout shit."

Trent grins. "I had my eye on that hot redhead in the front row, but I guess you'll do."

"She was really fucking into you." Hugh pulls up Trent's T-shirt and rubs his nipples. Trent's hips move, steadily but so faintly Hugh almost can't feel it. So Hugh pinches. 

Trent jerks. "Yeah, I could tell by how she was looking at me and not you about 10% of the time," he teases. "That takes willpower." 

"Look at you," Hugh says, dragging one hand down Trent's bare chest and stomach and sticking his thumb in the waistband of the skirt. "You look fucking debauched."

Trent looks at their reflections again and smiles, but Hugh can tell he's not looking at himself. He's looking at Hugh's hands on his skin. Hugh takes his hands away, letting Trent's T-shirt fall back down with a twinge of disappointment, and starts pulling the rings off his right hand. He drops them on the table one by one, a series of deliberate clinking sounds that say, _You know what's coming, baby._ He pulls off the fingerless glove and drops it on top of them, reaching for the latex glove. 

He always complains about these, and they do make his hand feel really gross and sweaty, but he's started to not mind them so much. He's started to like that little snapping sound they make on his wrist, because he likes the way Trent's breath hitches when he hears it. It's a Pavlovian thing for both of them, he guesses.

Trent takes his jacket off and tosses it across the room onto the couch, and Hugh squeezes some Astroglide onto his fingers. He lifts up the back of the skirt. Trent puts his hands back down flat on the table and leans forward a little, shifting his feet farther apart. 

Hugh rubs his fingers gently over Trent's hole. In the mirror, Trent's eyes close. The muscles in his arms tense and stand out. Hugh rubs a few more times and slips one finger inside. Trent takes a deep breath and relaxes around him. No matter how many times they do this, Hugh never gets tired of that, of Trent's trust. He leans forward and kisses Trent's neck. "It's so fucking weird not having to move your hair to do this," he says against Trent's skin, sliding his finger slowly in and out in time with Trent's breathing. "It's so fucking weird to just be able to see the back of your neck all the time, it looks so fucking vulnerable." He kisses and bites down Trent's spine to the collar of his sweaty T-shirt, then swipes his tongue back up. Trent makes a strangled noise. Hugh slips in another finger. "I love your hair," he says. "I love when the spotlight hits it and the ends turn bright white and everyone turns to look. It's like you _are_ light, this white light that people can't even see most of the time 'cause you're so fucking incandescent, and then the spotlight hits you and out comes every fucking color in the spectrum."

Trent shifts back against him, helping him find the spot. "There are so many fucking things wrong with this metaphor I don't even know where to start. Fuck, yeah, right there," and he doesn't know why Trent is bothering to tell him because when he hit the spot Trent rippled against him like water. Trent's body has no secrets from Hugh. 

"How am I supposed to structure a coherent fucking metaphor when you make me feel like I'm refracting?" He pushes his fingers in deeper, strokes until Trent's hips start moving in time with it.

"I thought _I_ was refracting," Trent says hoarsely.

"I prefer to call it afterglow, and we're not there yet." Third finger in, which means soon _he'll_ be in, which is a really good fucking thing. He nibbles across Trent's shoulder through the cotton until he gets to the rolled-up edge of his sleeve, and presses a soft kiss on Trent's bicep.

Trent giggles.

"What?"

"Tassste the rainbow!"

"If Skittles tasted like your sweat, I'd eat more of them."

"I can't decide if that's romantic or just disgusting." 

"Little bit of column A, little bit of column B." Trent's hips are getting a little impatient. Hugh loves this part, this push-pull-will-he-won't-he game, where they both pretend Hugh doesn't wanna fuck Trent just as badly as Trent wants to be fucked.

Someone bangs on the door. "Hey, let us in!" It's Dale.

"Go! Away!" Hugh mock-barks. "We're busy!"

"Let us in, I left my shirt in there," Tim calls.

Trent starts giggling again. "How the fuck do you walk away without your shirt?" Hugh cracks up too. 

But Trent leans farther forward, his shoulders shaking. It drags Hugh's fingers across the sweet spot. Trent is pretty quiet in bed, but he's laughing which means he's already vocalizing, and suddenly the laugh is a moan, this deep hot sound. 

Hugh's brain just shorts out, BAM, like someone emptied a beer can over it.

He pulls his fingers out and strips off the glove, dropping it in the wastebasket full of empty paper cups and inexplicable banana peels. Trent's already passing him the condom.

"I need my fucking shirt!"

Right. "It's not my fault you'd forget your dick if it wasn't attached," Hugh calls. "Come back in fifteen minutes!"

He can hear Dale laughing on the other side of the door. "Fifteen minutes, huh? You guys really are the last of the red-hot lovers."

Hugh meets Trent's eyes in the mirror as he rips open the condom packet. "No shilly-shallying, we're working on deadline here."

Trent smiles, his dark-rimmed eyes fever-bright. He looks wired. "Just as well, I got a curfew."

"You're not going to get tired of the schoolgirl jokes, are you?" Hugh eases his zipper down and shoves his jeans down his thighs. He should have done it earlier--his dick is really relieved to be free of the tight denim--but he was distracted. 

"Nope. Anymore than you're going to get tired of doing it in front of the mirror."

Hugh bites his lip as he squeezes a drop of lube into the condom and rolls it down. He watches them in the mirror as he positions himself. "Dressing rooms don't come with a fucking bed. This is the best way to fuck you and see your face at the same time." He pushes in, a sudden riptide of sensation, and in the mirror Trent gasps and closes his eyes. "Besides, we're beautiful together." They are--just enough contrast and just enough continuity to be motherfucking perfect. 

He thrusts slowly, giving them time to warm up, but they never really need much. Thirty seconds later Hugh is already gasping, already feeling like he's burying himself alive in Trent. The rhythm picks up, intensifies and complicates. He holds up his hand in front of Trent's mouth. "Spit." Trent does, and he dips his hand under the skirt and takes hold of little Trent. Trent puts his hand over Hugh's, their forearms pressed together. Hugh can feel Trent's calluses on the backs of his fingers, and Trent shifts the rhythm just the teeniest bit. 

His eyes are closed, his mouth hanging open, an expression of intense concentration on his face. It's like when he plays guitar: if you couldn't hear, if you were just looking, if you didn't know better, you'd think he was completely absorbed in himself, his own pleasure. But Hugh can feel Trent right there with him in every movement of his body, every breath, every shift and twist and push. He squeezes a little, urges Trent along. "Yeah," he growls in Trent's ear. "Come on. Come on."

Trent's breath shudders--the closest he can get to laughing right now--and he growls back, "Come on," as if they're doing the song. Hugh groans and shifts the angle a little bit, reaching--reaching--Trent gasps and his head comes back. If Hugh hadn't been looking over Trent's shoulder, Trent would've head-butted him right in the nose. He's almost there, Hugh can feel it, and he slows down abruptly. He gives Trent's cock long slow strokes, fucks him slow and gentle. Trent sobs for breath, strung out and poised on the edge, not even bothering to beg. Hugh pulls out almost all the way, stops moving his hand but keeps it closed tight. It feels like minutes of waiting but it's probably a split second--

Trent yanks their hands forward and back and Hugh slams into him on cue and Trent comes. 

He's the only person Hugh's ever slept with who doesn't lose his rhythm when he comes, he just-- _syncopates,_ shuddering and clenching around and against Hugh, staccato at first, then slow and warm like acoustic riffs in bed on a Saturday morning. Hugh shuts his eyes and presses up tight against Trent's back to finish off. He breathes in Trent's sweat and takes hold of his hips and Trent keeps moving against him, languid and satiated but still with energy thrumming between them. Hugh's so lost in it that he's stunned by his own orgasm. It blindsides him, T-bones him, smashes him up. He comes to with his nose and mouth pressed into the short hair at the back of Trent's neck like the only airbag he'll ever need. " _Fuck._ "

Trent smiles at him in the mirror, wide and blissed out. "Not bad, huh?" 

Hugh huffs a laugh and spits at the mirror, hitting Trent's nose's reflection. "I'd recommend it to my friends."

"You think we should give Tim his shirt?"

Hugh unclenches his hands from Trent's hips and let his dick slip out of his hole with a squelching noise. "How the fuck do you walk away without your shirt?"

"I hope nobody was coming back for this," Trent says as they both wipe their hands on the skirt. Hugh drops the condom on top of the latex glove. Trent wiggles the skirt down over his dick and hips as Hugh wiggles his jeans back up. Then Trent wipes his ass on the skirt and tosses it in the trash can too. The lube goes back in his jacket pocket, making a little crinkling sound as it hits the spare condoms. Trent frowns, then groans. "I just got that refractory pun from before. That hurts."

Hugh grins, still suffused with afterglow. "My jokes are like those World War II mines. They can be dormant for like half a century and then there goes your leg."

"Or a slow-acting poison," offers Trent, leaning his shoulder against Hugh's for balance as he pulls on his boxers and cut-offs.

"Cancer." Hugh digs in his bag for Vaseline and Kleenex. "Close your eyes."

"Wasps in a refrigerator." Trent smiles at him. "Leave it. I'll get it off in the morning."

Hugh's about to ask if Trent means it, but he thinks better of it. He drops the stuff back in his bag with a clunk and gives Trent a smacking kiss on the cheek. He is so fucking lucky. "Khan and his super-people in suspended animation."

"Walt Disney's frozen head." Trent slides the bolt back and pulls the door open. "Hey fuckers, come get your shit!"

"A hibernating polar bear."

"A pack of hibernating cyborg polar bears."

"That's cheating!"

"What are you gonna do about it?"

"I can think of a few things." They plop down on the couch as Tim and Dale come through the door.

"Looking good, Trent," says Dale. Tim nods and flashes a thumbs up.

Hugh glowers. "Hey! He _is._ "

Trent grins. "I'm not his therapist. It's none of my business if a childhood trauma left him with an erotic fascination with raccoons."

Hugh leans over and gives him a shove. "Hey, what Rocky and me had was beautiful. I'll thank you not to cheapen it with uncharitable remarks." And the four of them are off, narrating the moving yet improbable story of Hugh's lost raccoon love as they collect their things and head back to the bus.

Being in a band's nice work, if you can get it.


End file.
